The Skirt That Carried My Father’s Memory
After my dad died, his new wife, Carla, began “clearing out clutter,” tossing everything — even his ties.
I couldn’t let them go. Those ties held memories of his laughter, his love, his life.
So for prom, I turned them into a skirt — each silk strip a piece of him.
When Carla saw it, she sneered, “You’re wearing that? Always milking the orphan act.”
The next morning, I found it shredded on the floor.
Through tears, I whispered, “You destroyed the last thing I had of him.”
My friend’s mother, a retired seamstress, helped me mend it.
“Your dad will still walk you into that room tonight,” she said.
And he did.
At prom, teachers said, “He would be so proud of you.” I believed them.
The repaired seams reminded me of something true: love doesn’t fade — it mends, stronger than before.
